


Brand Recognition

by rhysgore



Category: Borderlands
Genre: Body Modification, Branding, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Possessive Behavior, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 15:45:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5096198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhysgore/pseuds/rhysgore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're all mine, baby," he says, "and you'll never forget who you belong to."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brand Recognition

**Author's Note:**

> im going through some tough stuff in my life right now so i figured "why not take it out on a cute boy?" and so here we are
> 
> small warning for brief mention of rape. it's one sentence, and isn't brought up again.

The leather cuffs cut into his arm and legs. The angle his limbs are being held at is making him ache, his entire body sore from being bound so long. And Rhys has never been more afraid in his life.

It was a completely different fear from what he'd felt on Pandora. Down there, the worst things people would do to him would all be posthumous. He would get shot, die, and then his skin would be flayed. The danger was real on Pandora, but relatively predictable, and Rhys couldn't say the same thing about Jack.

The man had promised Rhys power beyond his wildest imagination when he got his body back, and Rhys had done what he'd said, truly believing that Jack wouldn't hurt him. They'd been through too much together for Jack to just cast him aside when he was no longer vitally important, he'd thought.

And to be fair, Jack hadn't simply disposed of him, although Rhys was currently considering that as a better alternative to what was happening.

He struggles weakly against the leather cuffs again, but the position he's being held in is making breaking out seem impossible. Even his mechanical arm, which should have been able to at least partially rip through the restraints, is useless to him. His shirt is off, and cuffs wind around his lower belly and the base of his neck. His pants are still on, though, which Rhys counts as a small blessing to both his dignity and safety. If Jack intends to rape him, he would have taken those off, right?

"Stop wiggling so much, sweetheart," Jack says, frowning as he surveys his captive. "You're gonna make this way more difficult than it has to be." Rhys shuts his eyes. He wants to be obedient, despite every cell in his body screaming for him to _run, get out._

"Please. Jack, please." Fear makes his voice into a broken sounding whimper. "Whatever you're going to do, _don't_."

"Sorry kiddo, I gotta." Jack walks away from him, towards a hole in the wall that has been blazing red with heat for the past 10 minutes. It's some sort of electric furnace, Rhys thinks. The thought of what it might be used for makes him break out in cold sweat. "You see, there's nothing I hate more than people touching what's _mine_." He thinks for a second. "Well, maybe one or two things. But the point is, you belong to me, pumpkin. And I have to make sure _everyone_ damn well knows it." Jack's voice drops about half an octave, and gains a rough timbre that would likely be thrilling if Rhys had heard it under different circumstances. Right now, it's just terrifying.

"Here we go…" Jack turns around, and Rhys immediately sees two things. The first thing is that Jack is wearing truly ridiculous looking oven mitts in that garish Hyperion yellow. It's genuinely hilarious, but when Rhys bursts into hysterical laughter, it isn't because of the mitts.

The other thing Rhys sees is the implement in Jack's hands. It's made of steel, or some other type of heat-resistant metal, attached to a long rod (also steel), and the thin spokes of it glow whitish yellow. Rhys is a good 10 feet away, and he can still feel the heat pouring off of it. His hysteria only grows in intensity when he notices that the twisting, glowing metal spells out a word, still readable although it appears backwards to him.

_Hyperion_.

It's a brand. Jack is going to fucking _brand him_.

"Jack, for _fuck's sake_ , don't!!" he screams, thrashing against his restraints, desperate. Oh god, oh god, _oh god, why_. "Please!!"

" _Language_. Besides, sweetheart, the sooner we get this over with, the sooner it'll be done and we can go back to the whole business of running this place, m'kay? Now _hold still._ " The sentence tapers off into a murmur as Jack draws closer, holding the brand level with Rhys' chest. There's a focused mania in his eyes that chills Rhys to the core. In their adventure together, Rhys had seen numerous flavors of Handsome Jack's violent streak- from "clearly enjoying himself" bloodthirsty, to angry and vengeful- but the look in his eyes was at once unfamiliar and terrifying.

"No, no, oh _god!_ Jack, stop, please, don't do this!!" Rhys gasps, squirming as far away from the outstretched tool as he possibly can. "I'll do anything!! I'm- I'm _yours,_ I swear, I won't let anyone else touch me, just _get that thing away from me!!"_

"C'mon, if you don't quit moving so much, it'll hurt a lot more than it has to, and all I'll manage to do is fuck up your chest," Jack says, managing to make the idea of shoving burning steel into Rhys' flesh seem almost reasonable. There are tears streaming down his face, but the fear of additional pain is enough to make Rhys come down from his hysteria slightly, settling into silent crying and a full-body tremble as he closes his eyes and waits, murmuring "no, no, _no."_

" _There_ we go, pumpkin.”

The unexpected press of hot metal against his skin is nearly unbearable. Rhys feels the burning sensation in his sternum, bone deep. His eyes fly open, and he _screams_. It’s excruciating- it feels like his entire chest is on fire- it feels like he’s been splashed with acid, like his flesh is being eaten away, which probably isn’t that far from what’s happening. Rhys screams and screams and _screams_ until he feels himself start to go hoarse from it, and after what feels like an eternity, the brand is removed. The pain dulls, not completely, but enough that it doesn’t feel like he’s about to immediately pass out from it. Unconsciousness is a luxury he is denied.

He sags against the restraints, the way that they pull at him and cut into him completely overshadowed by the searing, throbbing, ache in his chest. His face is wet from crying, and his entire body is wracked with irregular, messy sobs. He wants nothing more than to curl up and die.

Rhys feels a hand press against the left side of his face, and the rough pad of Jack’s thumb wiping away his tears. Instinctively, he leans into it, craving even the barest comfort and gentleness, not caring for the moment that the comforter is the one who caused all the pain he’s feeling in the first place. He shakes like a leaf, and whimpers wordlessly as Jack runs his other hand against the burns on his chest, angry, charred red lines seared permanently into him.

“You did a good job today, sweetheart,” Jack murmurs, rubbing Rhys’ cheek, carding a hand through his hair with what seems to be genuine care. He leans in close, and presses a kiss to Rhys’ temple, just shy of his neural port. “Good boy.”

Half of Rhys is yelling at him to get out of there still, get away from Handsome Jack at any cost. The other half wants nothing more than for the man to wrap Rhys up in his arms, hold him tight, and praise him more. _Tell me how good I was, Jack. I need it, need it, need it-_

Jack fishes around in his pocket and pulls out a small key, using it to untie the leather cuffs. The adrenaline of fear and pain has drained out of Rhys, and with no support for his limbs, he slumps further and further against Jack until the solidness of his body is the only thing keeping Rhys in any semblance of an upright position.

Slowly, Jack lowers them both to the floor, sitting so Rhys is sprawled out over his legs, chest up. He looks over his handiwork, and for a second, Rhys swears he sees something akin to reverence in his mismatched eyes. He ghosts over the burns with his fingertips, not touching quite enough to cause any extra pain. Rhys feels his hands trembling ever so slightly.

“Mine,” Jack is saying. “You’re all mine, baby. When that heals, it ain't ever gonna go away, and you'll never forget who you belong to. You're mine. Mine, mine, _mine.”_ He says the word like a prayer, again and again. It’s the last thing Rhys hears as merciful unconsciousness takes him at last.


End file.
